Free The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror by Charles L. Grant

maybe even better than others. His house was clean, he washed and combed his hair and beard every morning, and he never bothered anyone at all. Never. Ever. In fact, as far as he could remember, he hadn’t spoken more than a couple of sentences at a time to anyone since Pop and Mom died.
    Except for Piper Cleary.
    And except, of course, for Mr. Parrish.
    And he didn’t mind not talking, either. Mr. Parrish paid him well just to stay where he was, and since he couldn’t do anything else, he wouldn’t want to lose his job.
    A job where all he had to do was count, and make people happy.
    4
    As soon as Doug made the turn onto Deerford Road he relaxed, slowed down, slumped back in his seat, and shook his head. His laugh was explosive and short, and he startled himself so much he nearly drove off the road. But leave it to old Sitter to make him feel better, chase away the willies, keep the clouds from his sun; and not for the first time he promised himself that someday he was going to stop and ask the man why he did it. But that, he knew, would undoubtedly spoil the effect. If the guy was drunk all the time, or stoned, or just plain off his rocker, waving to him would never be the same again.
    Just like a lot of things weren’t the same anymore— his fear of loving (you killed him), his slow-moving work (it was an accident), even the dreams that continued to haunt him while he was awake (but you killed him you killed him).
    “Yes,” he whispered.
    murderer
    “No. Damnit, no!”
    His grip on the steering wheel became a stranglehold, and he closed his eyes briefly, holding his breath until he was able to see in his mind’s eye not the shattered window and the ugly hate on Ellen’s face, but Sitter, in his lawn chair, waving and grinning and no strings attached.
    Thanks again, pal, he thought with a glance to the rear view mirror. Thanks. I owe you.
    Five minutes later he swung into the Depot Tavern’s narrow, graveled parking lot and braked alongside the single-story building. It looked very much like three freight cars placed one behind the other—and it was. When the DL&W was selling off a portion of its rolling stock to all comers back in the late twenties, an enterprising young innkeeper from just outside town thought they would make an unusual and profitable attraction. Damning the expense and the jeers of his neighbors, he had them hauled all the way from Newark, settled their massive iron wheels on a specially made reinforced foundation, then knocked out the interior walls to make room for the bar, booths and tables, and a kitchen that served only slightly less greasy food than the grill it was cooked on.
    The man went broke a year later, and Judith Lock-hart bought it at a sheriff’s auction. Now it was painted a garish, fire engine red, the windows were outlined in white, and the chimney pots were a dingy grey. It had been redone only that spring, with the help of half the town and the Mohawk Gang, a group of kids determined to raise hell and be saints, both at the same time. Despite the dust born of the heat wave that wouldn’t quit, the paint still gleamed, reflecting streetlight and starlight like the memory of an old ballroom.
    Tonight, however, it looked too much like blood.
    Doug paused as the door hissed shut behind him. Seattle was long gone, along with the moving wall, the wind, and Eban Parrish’s call. Now there was noise. People noise, drinking noise, and he was glad for a change that Casey had gotten drunk.
    The slightly curved bar was thirty feet long and cut from white pine logged from the nearby hills; the nine round tables between it and the twelve booths at the front were filling slowly, mostly with men and women in for a quick easy meal before heading off to a movie, the drive-in in Newton, or the shopping malls at Port Jervis. A few of them raised hands and voices in boisterous greeting when he walked in, and he smiled and nodded back, heading directly for the bar, where he pulled a